It's the Little Things...

Overheard as Ben left Abby's room just before nap time:

"Gooh-nigh, Beh!"

"Goodnight, Abby. I'll see you after naps," in sweetest sing-song voice.

"Ih see youh ah-ter nahs!"

Mama's heart melts.

A Carry-On and a Pocketful of Dreamin'

Six weeks ago, I was packing a small, carry-on suitcase more sparsely than any suitcase I've packed in four years. I included only two sets of clothes--comfortable, me, layered (in case the disparity between the air-conditioned university classroom and the often humid Iowa air was too great)--a small bag of only the most essential toiletries, and the items representing the limitless opportunity before me: a laptop, a spiral notebook and pen, and a couple of books. Normally I hate packing, but this time I did it carefully, contentedly, almost tenderly as I thought about and hoped for the hours that were coming.

When Josh got home from work, we played and ate dinner together the way we usually do in the evenings, but just before it was time to put the kids down for bed, I tucked my small, black carry-on neatly into the otherwise empty trunk, set my red book bag--which ordinarily overflows with diapers and pajamas and stuffed animals--on the empty seat next to me, and cheerfully waved goodbye to the most beloved treasures I have on this earth.

Then I took a deep, exhilarating breath, turned the music up to a volume reminiscent of my high school days, and commenced the hour drive to the airport.

The journey itself was every bit as significant as the destination for its unencumbered ease and independence: the drive by myself; the easy bus ride from the remote parking lot to the terminal without the shuttling and hefting of small children and large bags; the additional three hours of reading time before my 9:30 p.m. flight left at its delayed time shortly after midnight during which, despite my exhaustion, I basked in the knowledge that I had no one else to entertain, to persuade to sleep, or to corral; the 3 a.m. taxi ride with the most educated and articulate cab driver I've ever encountered who shared every detail of the Iowa flood and its wreckage while she made our way to the hotel.

And then to wake up less than four hours later to make my way to the orientation for the Summer Writing Festival in this distinguished, historical building standing proudly in the middle of the University of Iowa campus, the academic energy humming in my light, expectant spirit--it was nothing short of magical.

The workshop itself was, unfortunately, an anomaly in the otherwise excellent array of summer courses. Everyone in the small classroom who'd ever attended these workshops, whether the week before or every summer for years before, said so. It didn't matter. It was still sacred time for me.

During our first break, I met a woman who wanted to know more about the blog I hoped to create, who wanted to know more about me. It was a gift from Someone bigger than either of us, her simple question asked curiously but sincerely: "What do you mean by 'spiritual things'?" I had included "spiritual things" in the short list of writing topics I had shared with the class when we were all posed with the question of what we hoped to blog about. Then she told me of her hopes and desires for her own blog. And they share a common soul, I think. Our chance encounter confirmed the stirrings I felt within and gave me the courage to actually begin, this.

Less than forty-eight hours after I left the house, I rolled my little black carry-on through the Iowa airport and flew home again--my mind renewed with the knowledge of myself apart from my blessed but exhausting title of "Mommy," my spirit refreshed by this and other divinely orchestrated introductions within our small band of learners, my heart profoundly grateful to my husband for allowing me this luxurious freedom.

So here we are. And I love it.

Just Say No

I realized tonight that I've become a drugaphobe--not in the recreational sense (though I'm certainly phobic of those) but in the pharmaceutical sense. I am leery of anything stronger than Ibuprofen or Tylenol or, if absolutely necessary, an occasional antibiotic. Even these I take far less frequently than I used to: only when the throbbing headache or incapacitating sinus infection renders me useless to the world and I'm left no option but to pop a few pills.

I never used to be this way. I used to happily ingest medication, prescription and over-the-counter alike, without a second thought. No concerns about side effects. No worries about how they might be affecting my organs. No care about the drug's process in my finely-tuned body.

This new facet of my personality developed, I realized, when I learned that my body was actually capable of conceiving, growing, and delivering a breathing, thinking, feeling, fully-functioning person. It changed the way I perceive my body--for the better, mostly. But it has also made me starkly aware of the way medicine interacts with the systems. And while I'm 99.99999999999999 percent confident that I am not currently incubating a tiny human, the very, very, very small chance that it's within the realm of possibility is enough to make me eschew all things pharmacological.

Unfortunately, I'm supposed to be taking three medications right now because there's a good chance I have H. Pylori, a bacterial infection of the stomach that may be the cause of some of the weird but intense abdominal pain I've been having off and on lately. This, or I have a hiatal hernia, which was in all likelihood induced by pregnancy (lovely: more ailments, fear of drugs, all thanks to the wonders of maternity). So my doctor prescribed this strong course of treatment that comes in bottles with warning labels that say things like, "DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT GOING OUTSIDE IN THE SUN WHILE TAKING THIS MEDICATION" or "A GLASS OF WINE MAY KILL YOU WHILE ON THIS MEDICATION" or "DO NOT EVEN TOUCH THIS BOTTLE IF YOU ARE PREGNANT, MAY BECOME PREGNANT, OR ARE NURSING."

Okay, the warnings aren't quite that strong, but they are in all capital letters with little drawings for the folks who can't read the giant doomsday text. And I'm thinking, why do I want to put these things in my body if we don't know for sure what's going on? Oh, that's right: because if I do have the infection, my chances of getting stomach cancer increase, and that's a disease that, sadly, runs in the family.

So I took my three pills tonight, lamenting and kvetching the whole time. My husband laughed at me and my irrational attitude toward controlled substances prescribed by a highly-educated, duly-informed professional who's taken an oath to "First, do no harm." And he's right. This doctor knows way more than I do, no matter how proficient my googling skills are. I need to relax, trust the guy with the medical degree, and hope that this treatment relieves me of these awful pains.

But I'd like to state for the record that I'm not happy about it. I will gladly resume my medicine-free existence in ten days. Hopefully, I will also resume a pain-free existence in ten days--the jury's still out on that one. In the meantime, I will be carefully scheduling my three-times-a-day doses to be sure I don't take them less than an hour before eating (especially dairy) or less than two hours after eating or within a half hour of lying down (you can thank the medicine for this post for that very reason).

I'm going to give myself an ulcer just thinking about it.

The End of Summer

I'm a little giddy in my soul from this morning, high from the rush of love and exuberance I shared with Ben during our end-of-summer celebration. These moments when I get him all to myself are so rare, so precious. I can listen fully, watch completely, absorb every detail of his person and world without distraction--no eyes darting to make sure his sister isn't about to careen headfirst into something hard or sharp, no interruptions, no refereeing.

Just being. Together.

We squeezed every second of fun out of our morning together at the near-empty, carnival-esque park. We bounded from ride to ride with utter abandon. We didn't have to bother with lines, with long boring speeches about keeping our hands and legs inside the vehicles, with the disappointment that a ride was coming to an end. If Ben wanted to ride again, we rode again, smiling and laughing until our cheeks ached. I think we tried every ride a four year old is permitted to enjoy. It was two hours of unhurried, unfettered, unabashed delight.

Now he is sleeping soundly in his room, his body worn from the sensory rush. And I am savoring the moments in my mind, sipping the warmth of them slowly, deliberately. He heads back to school Wednesday, off to master more of his world in the insatiable way he has when it comes to learning. Our days will fall back into the comforting routines of fall, and Abby and I will fill our mornings with our own adventures. It is all good.

But the time shared today will remain seared in my heart as a reminder of all that is wondrous about the relationship with a child, about the new eyes we receive when we enter into the world with them, through them. I need to open them more, these eyes, from places other than the kitchen or car or store. The world is a thrilling place when I look, when I break the grown-up inertia of to-do's to share the view with my darlings.

Joining the Conversation

Abby has begun to understand the nuance of language: idioms, exclamations, intonation. My favorite right now is "Holy Moly!" As in:

"Ho-wee Mo-wee! Iss haht ouh-sighd!" or

"Ho-wee Mo-wee! I'm uh mehss."

This morning, Josh asked her what she wanted for breakfast, and she stood there in her pajamas in the kitchen, reflecting on the options and saying thoughtfully, "Ahmmmm..." before declaring with certainty in her signature volume, "Tohst!"

It's hysterical to watch the evolution. I mean, she's always had a voice. Even as an infant she had something to coo about everything, but now she's wielding it with authority, with panache, with gusto.

So this morning, when she returned empty-handed from her trip upstairs which she took expressly for the purpose of retrieving her water cup, naturally we asked her where her cup was. She stood there looking at us with one foot cocked out to the side and replied simply, matter-of-factly, with all the confidence and poise of Barack Obama, "Up-tairs!"

Causing Josh and I to fall into uncontrollable giggles.

"This Is Your Hand"

I found this poem last night and felt it captures perfectly the tenuous balance I try to strike with the kids: teaching them about the world, little by little, knowing with every explanation or definition, there is a universe of thought and meaning that cannot yet be spoken. But it will be someday.

I found this poem as I was searching for poems that could be read at a funeral. Big Abby's mommy passed away Monday. "Big Abby" is our babysitter, and Ben coined that title to distinguish her from our own little Abby. I met her in my life before children when I taught English at a local high school. She was in one of my freshman classes, and I grew to know her more through her involvement with student Senate and through her roles in the theater department. Last year, I wrote her a letter of recommendation for the well-respected theater program at her university, and she is to begin this new endeavor next week. She called me yesterday to ask if I had any recommendations of poems she could read at the funeral. "How do you find a poem for a funeral?" she asked. "Google funeral poems? That seems morbid." So I spent the evening looking for poems in my anthologies from college.

Her mother had fought cancer for 15 years, but her death was unexpected, related to a fall she took on their family vacation a few weeks ago (which I'm sure was related to the cancer). I imagine there must be some confusion to lose someone who seemed always on the brink of leaving to something other than the constant, epic battle. Whatever the case, this beautiful, 19 year old girl will now walk out into the world without a mother to bring her flowers on opening night, to meet the man who will be her husband, to hold her children as they grow. My sadness for the totality of her loss is indescribable.

I see little Abby's hand in the picture--so concrete, so sure, learning the world through all that is tangible and literal. Now, she sees a yellow flower, feels its soft, delicate existence, hears the bumblebees flitting nearby. Someday, she will see more: beauty? hope? the love of her mother who captured the moment? It is a strangely, beautifully, tragically complicated life we live.

You Begin

by Margaret Atwood

You begin this way:

this is your hand,

this is your eye,

that is a fish, blue and flat

on the paper, almost

the shape of an eye.

This is your mouth, this is an O

or a moon, whichever

you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window

is the rain, green

because it is summer, and beyond that

the trees and then the world,

which is round and has only

the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller

and more difficult to learn than I have said.

You are right to smudge it that way

with the red and then

the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words

you will learn that there are more

words than you can ever learn.

The word hand floats above your hand

like a small cloud over a lake.

The word hand anchors

your hand to this table,

your hand is a warm stone

I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,

which is round but not flat and has more colors

than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,

this is what you will

come back to, this is your hand.

Cortical Remodeling and the Power of Forgiveness

A few nights ago, I joined my sister at a seminar conducted by Dr. Timothy Vollmer, a leading neurologist at the forefront of MS (multiple sclerosis) research. He spoke about how new science and research are reframing the discussion about the disease's course in individuals as researchers better understand when and where the actual damage occurs in the brain and when and how symptoms show up as a result.

Whereas scientists used to believe there were three distinct phases of the disease that occurred throughout a patient's life, each marked by respectively more and more disease activity in the nervous system leading to greater and greater symptoms or disability, they're now learning that the disease really does most of its damage early on. What's interesting is that early on, when the disease damages nerve fibers, the brain is able to "rewire" itself through different neural pathways, thereby compensating for the loss of damaged nerves (a phenomenon known as "cortical remodeling" or "cortical remapping"). So it's actually possible, or likely, for the disease to be at work in someone before there are noticeable symptoms because the symptoms are masked by these compensatory activities of the brain. Eventually, however, the brain loses its ability to reroute its signals as easily and therefore can no longer compensate for the damage; this is when new or permanent symptoms arise.

It's actually very much like the process that occurs during aging. From birth, we all lose brain cells and neural pathways to the extent that we don't use them (which is why we're encouraged to expose babies and children to other languages, to music, etc., so that these neural pathways remain intact). At some point through the years, our brains lose their plasticity, their nimbleness, their ability to form new pathways, and this is when we begin to see deterioration in eyesight, hearing, mobility, memory function, etc. The brain literally shrinks with the loss of neural pathways as we age, or in the case of MS, with the nerve damage caused by the body's inflammatory immune response. In fact, the size of the brain of a patient in the first stage of MS (the relapsing-remitting phase) is akin to that of a healthy sixty year old.

Fortunately, as with aging, the best defense against MS is a good offense: use the brain as much as possible, both cognitively and physically, in order to maintain its optimal ability to rewire.

Now, all of this is fascinating in and of itself, but as I was spinning this morning on the patio of the rec center, looking at the endless rows of mountains, listening to the entire American Idiot album by Green Day (the instructor was in a Green Day mood), soaking up every ray of sunshine, I had this thought: what if our "hearts" actually function like our brains?

I mean, I've grown more and more convinced lately that people act out of their pain. People are hurt, wounded by someone else in their life, sometimes horribly and deeply, sometimes less obviously, and so they lose a little of themselves. They harden this part of their heart and then rewire their behavior to compensate for this loss. They learn to protect themselves through meanness or performance or humor or victimization or perfectionism or abrasiveness or avoidance. And so they become, in some ways, defined by their hurt.

Recently, I was talking with a friend in the throws of making a significant life decision, and all she could think about was how it would affect her parents; the whole discussion was framed not by whether the decision was right for her life and her goals and her values but by whether it would anger her parents too much. The irony was, the decision she wanted to make was actually the one her parents would want her to make, but she couldn't even evaluate her own thoughts because the voice of her parents was so strong in her head.

I think this is why I struggle so much with the idea of a bad guy, because I know that every villain has walked his own painful journey through life, and who knows the experiences that may have shaped an innocent child once upon a time? This is also the source of so much of my anxiety about my children: worry that they will run into one of these deeply wounded people one day; worry that they will be inadvertently wounded by me or someone else and compensate in destructive ways.

But I also think that this is where the power of forgiveness comes in.

I try to apologize to Ben when I have treated him impatiently or unfairly because of my own tiredness or stress or worry, and when I do, I ask him to forgive me. And he always asks, "How do we forgive?" That's a difficult question to answer--one I haven't understood very well to this point--but as I've thought about it more these last few months, I'm beginning to think that forgiveness involves letting go of the hurt that we've endured so that it doesn't damage our heart, so that we don't lose or close off that part of ourselves, so that we don't nurture a trespass and wake up one day to find we've become a different person to compensate for the loss.

As I watch Ben interact with his world, I find myself holding my breath when he encounters meanness or selfishness or aggression or manipulation, praying that he will not let those encounters or experiences change him. I understand now that what I'm really hoping for is his ability to forgive those people--to let go of that pain--so that it doesn't take root in his heart and shape who he becomes.

I also think that this may be what God was able to accomplish through Christ: to take on every hurt, every shame, every trespass, every cruel or ugly or false thing that people do to themselves and others and yet forgive it all, let it all go, so that He is not defined by fear nor by anger nor by pain--except that now He understands our struggle for he's walked much more than the proverbial mile in our shoes.

Instead of hardening His heart or seeking revenge or exacting penance, He offers peace with God and gives us the grace to forgive those around us so that we will no longer be defined by our hurts, so that we will no longer act out of our pain, so that we can be free from the way others have defined us and instead stand in the truth of who He has created us to be. The places where our heart was once hardened become the places where God's mercy and grace are most brilliantly displayed to the hurting world around us.

So I sat there pedaling, listening to Green Day, marveling at the power of forgiveness to prevent our hearts from dying little by little and having to rewire themselves like our brains. Then I realized, as with aging and MS, the best defense is probably a good offense: to exercise our hearts as much as possible.

And I think that's called love.